Ah, Friday. You know what Friday is? It’s the day when all the jackoffs in all the little boxes in all the towers in all the towns kind of half ass their workday while perusing gangbang sites, online boat catalogs, weekend tv listings or, in the rare moment of sweetness, staring at pictures of their ugly kids. They loosen their ties right after they get to the office and they have a beer and a shot of wild turkey at lunch. They resent their bosses quietly and passively in a “Fine, jeez! YES, okay Gary, I WILL cc you on the memo next time, you fat fuck, I get it. GOD!…hey, who cares, only three hours until I’m outa here, then it’s motherfucking Miller time!” Then, these poor, put upon souls swoop down like vultures into the barrooms and act like absolute dickheads. It’s great. You can feel the wave approaching like a fucking barometric pressure drop. One second, everything’s sunny and nice and then it’s “woah, did it just get about ten degrees crappier in here or is it me?” Friday afternoons, my friends, are kind of lame.
Hey, why am I complaining though, right? I’m a bartender and it’s my job to get people drunk, and on Fridays, that’s exactly the program. I don’t know. I guess it’s one of those things where by five, (an hour before I get done) I’m at a snapping point where requests like, “could you put some more sour mix in this” become personal affronts. I’m not really cut out for customer service, after all. I much prefer barking orders at people than having them barked at me. I guess that makes me kind of unique, huh? Heh. Anyway…
So there’s a new development with this baby. He’s become enough of an actual guy with enough of an embryonic little personality that I’m no longer relieved to drop him at daycare. It’s now a little sad. It used to be a moment of great relief to hand over the little crap factory and head home to a quiet house for twenty minutes before work, but now it’s kind of lonely and I find myself missing him. Ah, fuck. That’s uninteresting parenty crap, innit? I sort of promised myself I wouldn’t tell schmaltzy stories about my kid or my feelings for my kid or any shit like that unless it was truly relevant, and yet here I am. Okay, that means it’s time for an, ahem, paradigm shift….something involving sex, drugs, I don’t know…
Ah, I can’t do it. I was going to make a list of towns with the best drugs, but who really cares? It’s irrelevant if you don’t know someone, right? In New York, they have delivery services where you just call a number and say “yo, I want 3 grams of Afghani black tar heroin” and they send a car or bike messenger to wherever you are, be it an apartment/bar/public bathroom stall…At least that’s my understanding. I can say with some semblance of truth that I’ve never ordered black tar heroin from anyone. Regardless, you don’t need a messenger service in New York to get high. It’s trite, but drugs, good drugs, are everywhere. My friend Gerry told me that the best meth (yeah, I know…gross, what are you gonna do?) that he ever had was in Nebraska, and that it wasn’t even something you smoked or snorted, it was a “grey ooze” that you dropped into your beer. To paraphrase Gerry “It was awesome! I didn’t even think about sleeping for six days, and I didn’t eat for four.” Wow. Good times. That, to me, sounds up there on the list of awesome ways to spend your leisure time with trying to suck off a hungry rotwieller, but hey, I’m kind of a pussy in that regard I guess. My point is, kids, there are great drugs right in your town, no matter where you live…all you have to do is look for ‘em.
Speaking of Nebraska, I have a friend out there who once went down to Omaha’s local uh, skid row, I guess, and found a crackhead who was willing to attempt to suck his own dick while she filmed it for ten bucks. I know what you’re thinking. This was a GIRL? I know. Anyway, so she’s got this video of this crackhead in this alley rolling around with his legs over his head grunting and repeating “just a minute…almost got it” for like ten minutes, apparently. I never saw it, as I kind of thought it was a TOTALLY fucking demented thing to do. Although, I guess that if you do the math, that’s like sixty bucks an hour, so whatever, maybe I was wrong to cast stones. Relatively, that bum made more money unsuccessfully trying to suck his own dick than I do slaving away over chocolate martini shakers and white wine spritzers while smug chumps with comb overs and Bluetooth ear pieces yell at me that they need change for a hundred. Now I’m pissed.
Not like, suck my own dick and film it out of spite pissed, but well, you get the idea. I don’t think I could do that anyway. I’m not limber enough.
Okay, have we balanced out the baby story now? Good. It’s Friday. Enjoy it. I know I will. PFFFFT.